


Don't think past tomorrow

by Iwillgladlyjointhefight



Series: My eyes on you [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, i missed the characters so much, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwillgladlyjointhefight/pseuds/Iwillgladlyjointhefight
Summary: Alexander will have to handle change. Eventually.





	Don't think past tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to all!   
> I know this is not the update you might be waiting for.  
> I am in a weird mood. This series, and Alex in particular, always helped me to process my thoughts.  
> This is for Elisa, in memory of my first fanfiction; and for Chris, who was my savior these past few days.  
> Please indulge me.

Alex wasn’t tired. He would have been tired two nights ago, when he was running on two hours of sleep in forty-eight hours, when John had tried to coddle him into stopping to worry about that damn prison training reform Washington wanted to push at the next meeting with the DOJ, but Alex had started furiously scribbling in his notebook mid-blowjob and hadn’t that been a conversation he wouldn’t ever forget. 

“I should just consider myself lucky you don’t picture the President when we are in bed together,” John had said, and Alex had been so horrified he had dropped the notebook behind the bed where it would forever be forgotten in the land of vanishing single socks and discarded condom wrappers.

Anyway, Alex wasn’t tired. There had been a discount on Monster cans at the store, a 10-pack for 12 bucks, a bargain really, he should have checked the expiration date, and it had helped him power through like he hadn’t since the Great Exams of 2008, the ones where he distinctly remembered having been able to taste colors by the end of his Israeli Politics final. 

Alexander Hamilton wasn’t tired. But after Washington’s speech, he would need a blood transfusion and a meal that wasn’t directly pumped into his heart in the form of taurine and fire.

 

 

Alex opened the door to his, and John, and mostly (at least on the title deed) Hercules’ flat. The meeting was tomorrow afternoon, it was 10pm, he had given his staff the latest version of the President’s speech, he had his assistant on speed dial if he needed to modify it at the last minute before the kid sent it to Washington’s staff in the morning. His husband was probably getting his ass kicked at Mario Kart, Hercules had bought the Nintendo switch and had trained for hours on end for the sole purpose of humiliating his friends.

He could hear laughter from within the flat, even with the door closed. Judging by the black car stationed in front of the building, Lafayette was there as well. Being First Gentleman had in no way deterred him from spending time with them. Alex felt his heart tighten, although he didn’t know if it was a pending heart attack from all the caffeine or raw, inconvenient, exhaustion-heightened emotion. Soon George and Gilbert would adopt their first son, as soon as Gilbert was done with the nursery and talking George out of painting the walls in that dreadful yellow shade at Mount Vernon - “it looks like someone puked, George, and I just might” -, and judging by Eliza’s growing belly, it wouldn’t be long until John and Alex moved and started working on a family home of their own.

 

 

He would miss it, to tell the truth. The first place he felt really home in. The easy sense of belonging. Hercules, after his run to the farmer’s market, waking him up by working the blender and throwing at Alex a bottle of fresh homemade smoothie in that ugly shade of green that he had learnt to love if only because he loved the proud smile it brought to Hercules’ face. 

Peggy, the way her teeth shined, shark-like, when she was smiling around the straw in her cocktail every Friday night and she had her weekly Alex-roast fest, and her tangled hair on the Saturday mornings as she left for work with sleep in her eyes and swimming in one of Hercules’ shirt as she always seemed to forget to bring a change of clothes.

Angelica, frowning on the couch as she watched the news, her arms wrapped around her bent legs as Lafayette painted her toe nails an attractive shade of pink. She would say she wouldn’t, but she always ended up doing the same for him. Once, she had braided John’s hair into a crown, and Peggy had gasped and so had Alex but in a whole different manner, in private.

Eliza, her kind eyes that turned to fire when Maria kissed her hand, the books she would leave everywhere, open on the couch’s armrest, bent spine reminding Alexander of his own crooked posture, a well of knowledge open for all to see. Lately, she had switched to maternity books, stacked on the coffee table where John would occasionally pick one up at random and read it to Alex in the dead of night, getting ready to greet their son.

Every so often, Alex would be greeted at the door by Benjamin Tallmadge. It could only mean one thing, and that was that President George Washington was currently raiding his fridge for vanilla ice cream. Lafayette would be lounging on the couch, eyeing his husband warily, commenting happily about his - apparently - godly body under the shirt despite the frozen dairy addiction. Casually, between two spoonfuls, Washington had told him that should he win the reelection next year, he would ask Alexander to be his Treasury Secretary. Alex had cried that night.

 

 

And then there was John.

Fabulous, marvelous John. 

His large smile and his million freckles, his boisterous laughter at the breakfast table and his quiet giggles under the sheets, his curls and his arms and his hands and his warm skin that turned into Alex’s personal heater on cold winter nights when their legs and breaths would tangle as the steady rhythm of their heaving chests would rise into a staccato before finding peace in each other. 

John was not flawless, and that was what made him perfect. Sometimes, when Alex worked late, John would come home even later, bruises blossoming like roses on his jaw and temple, knuckles scraped raw and angry, and he would refuse to let Alexander hold ice to his throbbing aches, reveling in how alive he felt, and Alex would wonder if that made John think of his childhood and his dad’s hard hands on his cheek. 

But he would cradle Alexander when the wind blew and Alex stared at the hurricane, the one outside and the one inside, and never had he commented on the pained whine the pouring rain would drag out of him, or how anxious Alexander would be the following days as he called everyone they knew to make sure they still had a home and that they had not fallen sick to a strange illness, the one in his mind, that only John could cure in the sanctuary of his arms.

 

 

The flat was small, there was a leak in the upstairs neighbor's flat that left a worrying damp spot in the corner of their bathroom ceiling, the floor would creak right in front of the kitchen where you were guaranteed to wake everyone up if you went for a late-night or early morning snack, but the living room was always brightly lit by the sun, making the glossy pictures on the walls blink happily at Alex as he walked to the coffee machine in the kitchen, the new fancy one he and John had gotten as a wedding present from Angelica. In the summer, they would open the windows wide and the polluted DC air would come in but they would try to hide it with sweet-smelling bouquets, red and pink camellias and yellow daffodils that Alex would never fail to give to John after coming home bone-tired and grumpy at 1am. In the winter, the couch cushions would smell faintly of the hot chocolate Lafayette had spilled on them, and various ornaments would linger on the table as John bought them, a seemingly neverending supply of red and gold and silver cheer as the snow fell thick and cold. 

 

 

Mostly, the place smelled like family. Like that distinct smell you only seem to notice after you left home for a while and you come back. Except Alex felt like he noticed it every single second, in the shiver of his skin and the distinct lack of tension in his shoulders as soon as he walked past the threshold. Which he was doing right then.

 

 

There was always that moment, right between the second he put his hand on the door handle and the second he actually pushed it, where his anxiety-riddled brain would send a wave of paranoia down his nervous system. Maybe it was all, in the end, a dream fuelled by his insecurities and John Laurens was actually still at the coffee shop, smiling at the weird little stranger that looked short on sleep and cash, with his long tangled hair and dark circles under his eyes and no ring on his finger; maybe Hercules Mulligan still lived alone, knitting in the quiet of his flat, no dirty shirts littering the bathroom floor where Alex never seemed to be able to pick them up; maybe Lafayette was still a secret, unable to sort out his feelings or help Washington with his.

 

 

But Alex always pushed the door open anyway. And once again, nothing had disappeared. However, something was new: he was greeted by Angelica, quietly sitting on the small table in the hallway, candles pushed aside to accommodate her legs.

“The floor is lava,” she said.

Alexander took a few steps and took in the sight of John, standing barefoot on the couch, engaged in a vicious fight with Hercules, precariously perched on the armchair’s armrest, couch pillows in each of their hands. Eliza, getting bigger by the minute, was scrolling on her phone next to Lafayette, both sitting on the coffee table, sometimes stopping to show him cute pictures of cats he would coo at before raising his glass of wine to his lips.

“Alex!” John shouted, and his smile briefly lit up the world until Hercules caught him on the side of the head and John just barely gripped the back of the couch to stay upright. “I demand immunity to greet my husband,” John said.

“Granted by my immense mercy,” Hercules said, raising both his cushion-gripping arms in the air like a vengeful god, to Lafayette’s delight. 

John jumped from the couch, landing gracelessly next to Alex, kissing his lips quickly. “You can't stay there, baby. The floor is lava.” 

“So I heard,” Alexander said, allowing John to drag him to the couch, toeing off his shoes and grabbing one of the pillows Eliza was handing him. 

“First one on the floor has to pay rent,” Hercules said, whacking Alex square in the face and sending him flying.

 

 

Things were gonna change soon. But not right then. Right then, the floor was lava.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
